


BBC Sherlock: The Blogger's Tale

by Wynsom



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Medical Conditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:26:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24570778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynsom/pseuds/Wynsom
Summary: Post S-4 In a cottage on the South Downs, Sherlock reminisces with John about the untold "Case of Colonel Warburton's Madness." Grown-up Rosie urges them to tell her about this case that took place before she was born. (A casefic and a glimpse of a timeless friendship, all in one story! What could be better?) All Disclaimers Apply.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson & Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**BBC Sherlock: The Blogger's Tale**

**_* Prologue *_ **

**April 2036**

"Glad you kept these when you moved, Sherlock." John Watson leant forward in the armchair and blew the dust off a note card he had pulled from the worn box resting in his lap. Rather than retrieve his reading glasses from his jacket pocket, he held the card at arm's length to compensate for his presbyopia. He read it silently then addressed Sherlock. "Listen. Remember this one?"

"—I remember all our cases, John," Sherlock answered pointedly resting his elbows on the small kitchen table. He had been logging statistics to the cloud for his bee hives when John posed the question, "—including the contents of the unpublished ones in your box, there."

"I haven't even said which one it is, yet….," John grinned at his lifelong friend.

"Even so, there's no need to ask," Sherlock's level voice belied the pleasure he derived when John reviewed their old cases, even the ones John had never included in his blogs.

"It's a rhetorical question, Uncle," Rosie corrected her godfather. She made her remark without looking up from her 3-D imaging tablet. "Dad's just reminiscing… trying to remember it himself."

The petite woman, an Oxford third-year, was sitting cross-legged in the stuffed armchair facing her father. The cottage sitting room was comfortable and warm, the fireplace more than compensating for the dank weather outside. A persistent thunderstorm was keeping Rosie Watson and her father from exploring the farm surrounding Sherlock's new home on the South Downs near Eastborne. They had motored down the previous evening so they could get an early start, but now she was confined on her first visit by the dreadful weather. Disappointed, Rosie had hoped to enjoy her brief visit in Sussex during Hilary term—taking a momentary breather from the rigors of her four-year Biomedical Engineering studies—to learn more about her godfather's newest obsession: bees. The grand tour was now out, but she had no trouble logging into her Oxford student account to make efficient use of her time swotting for exams. One of the benefits of being related—in a fashion—to one of the premier researchers in the United Kingdom was the certainty of having superior connectivity even in the country.

"This one was before you were born, Rosie," John's eyes crinkled with nostalgia, deepening the sixty-five-year-old's crow's-feet.

"Exactly two weeks and three days before, in actual fact; Mary was on bedrest then," Sherlock noted, proving he knew by a glance across the room which card John had drawn.

Rosie looked up at her godfather—the fit, slender man who seemed untouched by his sixty years, except for the greying temples in his slick-backed hair—and watched the interplay between the famous detective and his famous blogger. Her father's reaction was what she most enjoyed. His mixed expression of bemusement and admiration whenever Sherlock did his 'thing' never got old for Rosie.

"I suppose you can tell by comparing the card's appearance from the other fifty or so cards," John muttered, "and where this particular one was in this box?"

"You know my methods," the slight uptick of Sherlock's smile meant he, too, enjoyed John's reactions. "You wouldn't be struggling to read right now, John, had you done as I advised: undergone the simple lens implants procedure. And, just so you know, there are precisely sixty-eight cards in that box."

"Dad!" Rosie giggled. "Put your glasses on! Uncle Sherlock numbered the backs of them. If you turn it over you can see it's twenty-seven."

"Don't want the procedure," John scowled at his own gullibility and arched his brows when he saw there was a number in Sherlock's distinctive hand on the back. "Of course, you're right about Mary needing bedrest, but it was a necessary precaution." Sentiment softened his voice. "Given she was turning forty and you were her first, hers was categorized as an age-related high-risk pregnancy. Fortunately, she went full-term without complications."

"An _unforgettable_ day, that," Sherlock nodded before turning back to his voice-responsive quantum computer to continue his data inputting.

"Unforgettable," John concurred, glancing at his lovely daughter. Her honey-colored hair, so like her mother's, shone in the flickering glow of firelight. He gave her a proud smile. "The best ever, my lamb!"

Rosie smiled back. She had heard the story multiple times. She also noted the tell-tale shine in her father's dark blue eyes. He had got so sentimental of late about the "good old days." She returned to the subject. "So, the case on that card, Dad…what is it?"

Sherlock answered her before John, "The Warburton case. It was one of two clients your father brought to my attention. Isn't that so, John?"

"Quite," John palmed his eyes, sniffed, and glanced back at the card. "It was a medical case that stumped my colleagues."

"Which is presumably why it didn't become one of your blog postings." Sherlock twisted in the spindled-backed chair to view his guests with quiet satisfaction. Having them physically present, not just as a hologram via teleconferencing, was more pleasurable than he wanted to admit. It has been quite a while since they had gathered in person. "Actually, it should be something you've encountered already in your studies, Rosie. Although quite unknown back then, the information—when it became public knowledge—changed medical procedure. It wasn't, however, the kind of mystery that would have interested our normal readership."

"I don't think I ever heard of _this_ one." Curious now, Rosie squinted—so much like her father, it seemed to Sherlock. She closed her tablet and settled in the wing chair to enjoy the story. "Tell me about it—please."

A zig-zag bolt of lightning and an immediate thunderclap made them all jump in their seats and Sherlock instantly shut down his computer. "Well, well," he said. "Nature's having her say in the matter. I guess a story for Rosie is in order. I recall it working when you were a child to keep your mind off thunderstorms."

Rosie's laughter was reminiscent of her mother's. "I'm not a frightened child anymore, Uncle Sherlock. But I always relish hearing an adventure you shared, especially one I haven't heard before."

"How much of this case do you remember, John?" Sherlock asked as he joined them.

Rosie jumped up. "You sit here in your chair, Uncle Sherlock, and hold that thought. I'll make us tea."

John raked his hand through his silver hair as if that might help him recall the details while Rosie filled the kettle from the boiling-water tap and assembled the mugs and teabags. "I recall how the patient first presented." John continued, "and then the remarkable outcome. It became a landmark in preventing the same complications for future patients, although some details in between—like how you figured it out—might be a bit dodgy in my memory."

"No problem there, John." Sherlock settled into his armchair after tossing pillows on the floor for Rosie to sit between him and her father. "You can begin and I'll correct you—"

"Sure, like that _never_ gets old," John groused good-naturedly.

"Oh, Dad! This will be proper fun," Rosie chirped, arriving with their steaming mugs on a tray and placing two on the side tables beside each of the old friends. She kept her own on the tray which she put on the floor near the pillows. "It'll be like old times, hearing this in your _own_ voices."

John waited for his daughter to tuck her legs under her and get comfortable before he began.

"It really _was_ a puzzle. Poor Colonel Warburton… his personality had drastically changed within six months. He had been in and out of medical centers for complications associated with Parkinson's and had progressed so quickly to psychological instability and depression in an otherwise fairly healthy person that his doctors were stymied."

"No, _John!"_ Sherlock's sharp tone surprised both Watsons, but he met their startled glances with a soft expression and warm smile. "Not _that_ way! You can't ruin this for Rosie. You're going too fast. Your daughter deserves better than a quick synopsis. Begin again. This time use that blogger's narrative style you're so well-known for."

John squinted at his friend. "I thought you didn't like how I dragged out our so-called ridiculous adventures."

"Well, time has taught me to appreciate the craft, _your_ craft," Sherlock murmured, "and…given the duration of this spring storm," as if on cue, another loud thunderclap shook the brick-and-flint cottage, "we shall have time to savor the details."

John leant back in his soft chair and sipped his tea. His eyes grew soft with memory; he put his mug down and licked his grinning lips, pleased at Sherlock's challenge, "Okay, then. Rosie, this is the case of Colonel Warburton's Madness…"

88**88

**_"Of all the problems which have been submitted to my friend Mr Sherlock Holmes for solution during the years of our intimacy, there were only two which I was the means of introducing to his notice, that of Mr Hatherley's thumb and that of Colonel Warburton's madness."_ **

**_\- Dr. Watson (from THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENGINEER'S THUMB- Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.)_ **


	2. The Case of Colonel Warburton's Madness

**The Case of Colonel Warburton's Madness**

_[In telling Rosie his version, John avoided some of the darker elements regarding Sherlock's drug-abuse history_ _to protect her godfather's image. The following is the_ real _story_ _—_ _what both men remembered having_ actually _happened. - A.N.]_

**February 2016**

"Hhhhmmmm….John?" Sherlock barely interrupted his texting session to greet his friend in the hospital lobby. He finally looked up from his mobile to ask, "Mary okay?"

John frowned and shook his head, "Oh, yeah, No! Right. All good. I didn't ring you about that!"

"Well?" Sherlock snapped, "I have work to do, cases to solve. Still waiting for Moriarty's posthumous game. Don't have time to waste on social calls."

"Not social," John insisted, eyeing his friend with sudden suspicion, and irritated that Sherlock had returned his attention to his frenetic texting. This intense, bordering-on-manic behavior since returning from his aborted exile weeks before made it hard to tell what was going on in that genius brain. John tried to dismiss the nagging question: _was Sherlock using again?_

During their initial eighteen months working together, John had seen no evidence of Sherlock's drug use, not even when Lestrade threatened the occasional drugs-bust to gain the detective's begrudging cooperation. Perhaps the nicotine patches helped. However, if Sherlock had used during his two-year hiatus, John couldn't say, but the recent Magnussen case had been a game changer. Sherlock had dabbled with drugs, played with the doses, claiming it was an undercover ruse. So much about _that_ case had gone terribly wrong—quite unexpected twists and turns had led to dire consequences and ended with Sherlock's desperate and lethal fulfillment of his wedding vow to John and Mary—to do "whatever it takes." He had, as he had too often done, put his own life at forfeit. Sherlock's sacrifice had been so immense and troubling, John hadn't known how to process the gaping hole his friend's exile would be leaving in his life.

But Sherlock had known what was in store and that the mission he'd been given in lieu of incarceration was to have meant his certain death. Sherlock said his good-byes and boarded the jet, notwithstanding—along with a cache of select, concealed drugs to enable him to self-medicate or self-euthanize. As he expected not to be rescued, it had been for him a practical solution. It was this or break under torture.

Then had come an inexplicable stroke of luck—a message from the revenant Moriarty that had cancelled Sherlock's banishment. Only four minutes after takeoff, the sentence was commuted and Mycroft was given orders to inform and recall his brother.

When John, Mary, and Mycroft had boarded the jet to welcome his return, they found Sherlock hallucinating. John was both alarmed and frustrated that Sherlock had deliberately used again despite Sherlock's claim that, as the jet circled back, he had taken a precise cocktail of stimulants to help focus his mind on the puzzle of Moriarty's message. Upon recovering from the "trip to the past," Sherlock had seemed convinced about several things—Moriarty had died on St. Bart's rooftop and whatever revenge was in the works was both posthumous and imminent. He also knew he was the prime target.

John presumed these convictions explained why, dealing with Moriarty's latest threat, Sherlock acted perpetually jittery, short tempered, hypervigilant, as if his analytical brain to observe and process deductions from minutiae was running at full capacity. He increasingly worried that Sherlock was pushing himself too much, too hard. He also wasn't sure how long Sherlock would be able to keep it up without seeking help from drugs again.

John had wanted to believe—as Mary did, who was a better judge of subterfuge—Sherlock's claim that he had desisted his experimental drug use, that Moriarty's as-yet-undisclosed scheme was giving him a "natural high—totally natural," along with his elation at just being alive.

A grateful man might have shown some humility after returning from exile, but not Sherlock. He grew more arrogant, more rude—if that were possible—more obnoxious, even in social settings among his close friends. He carried on distracted conversations while multitasking on his mobile with searches, offering solutions to clients or the Met. To John, he acted more like a man on borrowed time than one with a new lease on life.

In the hospital lobby, John studied his insolent best friend in silence until Sherlock stopped texting and looked over at him. _Eyes clear, pupils normal_ , John noted with relief. "Okay, Sherlock. Got your attention, then? I asked you here, well, my colleagues did, for advice. Medical advice…"

Sherlock frowned at John's unexpected request. "I'm not qualified to dispense medical advice," he scoffed, exasperated, "and I can't be sidetracked to begin learning—"

"—True," John interrupted, "but they believe this patient case _will_ interest you. They're calling it an unsolvable mystery. While I don't have all the details myself, they convinced me you might have insights that could help. At least, an outside opinion, so I agreed to ring you as a favor—"

"A favor? A favor to whom?" Sherlock grumbled. "Why would you involve me in favors you owe to others?"

John folded his arms and glared at his friend.

"Oh. All right," Sherlock wagged his head and sighed in an uncharacteristically mild gesture of acquiescence.

"So, about this patient," John guided them to the lift and hit the up button. "A colonel in the British Army, a career soldier, who served diligently in NATO's Enhanced Forward Presence in Eastern Europe for seventeen years," he spoke softly, pausing as people passed, so as not to breach patient privacy. "Retired after forty years. Married just as long, father of two adult children. I didn't know him personally, but I remember he had a great reputation for fairness and level-headedness as a commanding officer. He was well-respected by his—."

The lift doors opened to discharge passengers and John cut off. He followed Sherlock in once the car had emptied then hit the button for the drug and psychiatric ward.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, his voice tinged with pique and suspicion. "You're not planning one of these….these _interventions_ , are you, John? I'm _not_ using," he insisted through clenched teeth.

"Believe me, mate," John said evenly, staring ahead at his image in the polished-steel wall above the lift buttons, "if I suspected you were…. Wait, how did you say my Victorian version put it? ' _I would quite like to find every ounce of the stuff in your possession and pour it out of the window.'"_

John noticed Sherlock's sheepish grin in the reflection.

"He also said," Sherlock continued wryly, _"…dear God above! You will hold yourself to a higher standard."_

_Enough said,_ John thought. _No need to belabor it._ He met his friend's glance in the reflective surface and nodded before resuming the topic about the patient's health history. "Since retiring four years ago, Colonel Andrew Warburton has kept to the health regimen established during his army years: daily calisthenics, weight training, jogging, cycling…basically he has been a fit and physically _active_ man in his early sixties until recently, according to his wife."

The doors opened to the ward and John led Sherlock into the brightly lit but small corridor. Locked doors at either ends of the hall read _No Admittance_ in bold letters and scanner pads indicated access required key cards. Waiting in the corridor were a balding, middle-aged man with glasses and a younger, dark-haired woman both in white jackets. They dropped their conversation as John and Sherlock approached.

"John!" The man shook hands, made succinct introductions and conducted them to a small consultation room off the hall. Dr. Janice Rodgers—Warburton's neurologist—sat behind the desk and opened her tablet. Ward psychiatrist Dr. Michael Otis gestured John and Sherlock to the chairs facing the desk. Otis remained standing, arms folded and focused on the newcomers.

"I know John will have apprised you of the case," he addressed Sherlock. "Let me just say that Warbuton's medical history had been unremarkable. He'd maintained his regular checkups and had no significant medical issues."

"Then two years ago," Rodgers read from the digital record before her, "the patient presented with hip pain which he originally dismissed as the 'no pain-no gain' outcomes of his physical exertions. The pain, however, became progressively worse and was most persistent, particularly on one side. It began to limit his activity levels severely. Despite his wife's urgings, by the time he sought medical help, he was suffering from acute and degenerative hip issues. His orthopedic surgeon deemed him an excellent candidate for hip surgery."

"It succeeded. His prognosis was good," Otis continued. "Warburton was back to his normal activities without pain…for a good year and a half at least." He pushed away from the wall. "By then, however, other medical issues, unrelated to his hip, have begun to manifest."

"According to his file," Rodgers again read from the tablet, "in the past six months Warburton has developed hearing loss, tinnitus, optic nerve atrophy, visual impairment, convulsions, vertigo, headaches, tremors, polyneuropathy, incoordination, cognitive decline, possibly from Parkinson's, and depression."

"The swift onset of these conditions is most unusual," Otis added, "especially as there is no family history and nothing in his own health history prior to these past few months."

"I see," Sherlock folded his hands, tented his fingers, and rested his chin on his fingertips. "So….depression with intent to do self-harm—the reason he's in this psych ward, then?"

"Yes." Rodgers nodded with a slight smile, pleased by Sherlock's deductive leap. "While his other symptoms would not ordinarily send him to the psych ward, when patients become combative and mentally disorientated, they are brought here for their own safety."

"Combative, how so?" Sherlock lowered his head, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

"Yesterday, Warburton was scheduled for a battery of medical tests," she continued. "None of this was new to him nor should have caused him undue duress. Blood work, scans, x-rays, bone density… the usual. Indeed, he was quiescent and compliant."

"Janice, I know you were trying to get to the bottom of his neurologic symptoms," John puzzled, "so why the bone density?"

"Well, John, we needed to determine his bone quality. You see, the joint around the prosthetic implantation had shown evidence of unexpected and excessive wear in the metal femoral head."

"Yes, this was most distressing to the patient," Otis added. "His surgeon who did the hip replacement discovered this when the Warburton was brought in with the other symptoms. It was very disappointing. He told us it was the first time he had opted for metal-on-metal over the ceramic-on-plastic combinations. Warburton had been adamant about resuming his fitness regimen and this medical device was touted to be the best."

"Was that particular implant defective, then?" John frowned.

"The surgeon contacted the manufacturers about this accelerated breakdown of the implant, but hasn't yet heard back." Rodgers sat back in her chair and sighed. "There are more pressing concerns, now, however, especially after what happened yesterday." She looked worriedly at Otis.

"As I indicated, Warburton was in a…normal frame of mind whilst awaiting these tests," Otis continued. "Suddenly, without provocation, he decompensated—violently. Warburton trashed his hospital room, causing such a ruckus that the orderlies had to subdue him. He engaged them physically—despite his muscle weakness. They had a difficult time of it, too, sustaining contusions themselves—until a nurse sedated him. We transported him here straightaway."

Sherlock noted John's perplexed glance, then questioned the pair. "You've done tox-screens on him, I presume?"

"Yes, a thorough medical work-up that included a complete physical and laboratory investigations. The results are complete…" Otis adjusted his glasses on his nose

"And?" John prodded, the hesitation was too much for his curiosity.

"His blood and urine revealed cobalt levels 100 times what they should be."

"Cobalt?" John exclaimed in confusion, watching both doctors nod in confirmation.

"Yes. The clinical picture is one of systemic cobalt toxicity, supported by excessively high serum cobalt and chromium levels … In short, cobalt poisoning…"

"To my knowledge, there are only four routes of exposure," Sherlock interjected. "Warburton would've had to have ingested, inhaled, injected, or absorbed the cobalt." He looked from one to the other of them. "Is there another venue than I have enumerated?"

"We've ruled out ingested and inhaled, so far," Rodgers replied. "There's no sign of cobalt in his lungs or gastrointestinal tract, and we see no injections sites. There's no evidence of a rash caused by contact with skin. But somehow, the blood and urine results show it's systemic and doing him great harm. The question is how did it get there?"

"Have you reason to suspect this is a deliberate poisoning, then?" The subject of the medical consult had taken a curious turn, sparking Sherlock's keen interest.

"We are at a loss to explain otherwise," Otis spoke for him and Rodgers.

"Ah, I see…. "Sherlock observed their reluctance to elaborate further and grinned with growing enthusiasm at the challenge. "You need _my_ help because you already called the police, _but_ —"

"But unless we can prove that there has been malicious intent, the police can only write up a complaint and launch a preliminary investigation. At the moment, there is very little to go on. That's why we asked you here, Mr. Holmes—to shed some light so we know what we're dealing with."

"To ascertain intent," Sherlock looked from Otis to Rodgers, "we need to establish motive. The colonel is career military. It's possible he made enemies. Someone from his military career with a grudge, perhaps? Or a close family member or friend? I must narrow down the possibilities…., I shall need to see him." Sherlock stood suddenly and John followed suit.

Both doctors exchanged glances. "The patient's calm now, although mildly sedated," Rodgers answered first. "And more lucid. What do you expect to learn, Mr. Holmes?"

"I'll know when I see him."

**88**


	3. A Motive for Poisoning

**BBC Sherlock: The Blogger's Tale**

**88**

**A Motive for Poisoning**

**February 2016**

"Can you stop texting, _now_?" John hissed. "It's _bloody_ infuriating and …rude."

Surprised at John's pained tone, Sherlock looked up from his mobile. John had been several steps ahead, but had swiveled to deliver the quiet reprimand. They had been following Otis and Rodgers through the psych ward, but Sherlock had lagged behind to search on his mobile. As they had just arrived at the patient's room, he neither corrected his friend's wrong impression nor explained that he had been scanning through scientific studies on cobalt toxicity. Nothing new leapt out at him that he hadn't already known. Saying nothing, he pocketed the device.

Propped up in the hospital bed was a grey-haired man sipping water. He grimaced at the petite blonde woman at his bedside and handed the water back to her, "Sorry. Don't want anymore. It tastes like metal."

She replaced it on the side table and patted his hand in sympathy.

_The wife_. _Early_ _sixties_. Sherlock's eyes darted first to the matching wedding bands and then her accessories. _Designer handbag; authentic gold earrings; delicate but tasteful silk scarf to hide her age-related slack neck and sagging muscles along the jawline._ Sherlock sniffed her pervasive perfume: _Floral, woody_. _Prada Infusion d'Iris_.

Although she was close in age to her husband, the well-groomed woman had taken pains with her appearance, perhaps to keep up with her physically fit husband— _formerly_ fit husband.

"Colonel, Mrs. Warburton," Dr. Otis greeted the couple. "We've brought in Mr. Sherlock Holmes to assist us. As we discussed with you earlier, we're looking for answers regarding the cobalt toxicity. Since you've signed the privacy waiver, we've now apprised him of the issues."

Mrs. Warburton acknowledged Sherlock and John with a worried smile. "Thank you for coming today, gentlemen. Andrew has worked with your brother, Mycroft, on occasion. Isn't that right, dear?" She squeezed her husband's hand and met his gaze. Her eyes grew moist as she added, "We're so very grateful for your help. As you may imagine, this has been most distressing for both of us."

"Yes, troubling," Warburton's gaze lingered briefly on his wife before turning to Sherlock and John. "Good man, Mycroft Holmes. Steady. Very clever, an attribute that runs in the family, it would seem."

Warburton regarded his guests much as a superior officer inspects his men, but the initial severity in his expression soon softened. He cleared his throat and continued, "Now, Mr. Holmes, I'm a realist; there are battles one can't win, but until we reach that tipping point, there are maneuvers to avoid defeat. In my case, at least we know the enemy, but I need acts and tactics to combat this attack!" Despite his medical problems, the colonel proved neither feeble-minded nor dispirited, although his anger simmered beneath the surface. "No offence to these fine doctors, here, but I can smell when strategists are in the dark, searching for better intel… making guesses. This," he gestured toward his medical team, "seems to be one of those times. Not wrong, am I?" His eyes darted to Otis and Rodgers. Under his gaze, they fidgeted uncomfortably.

_Brusquely blunt._ Sherlock thought. The recent diagnoses would give any man reason to feel ill-tempered, but if this were typical of Warburton's commanding techniques, malicious intent would not be out of the question _._ Sherlock watched the wife to see if this abrasive behavior was typical. By her expression, it seemed it was not.

"There, there, Andrew," she disapproved gently. "It's frustrating all round. We know the doctors are working hard to figure this out. It may take a bit of time, but—"

"—Don't you see, Nance," Warburton dropped his voice and his gaze, his façade crumbled by doubts, "I don't have time. That's why they're scrambling—"

"Still, they aren't to blame, dear," Nancy whispered, gripping his forearm and leaning toward her husband's ear. Even softly spoken, her words were encouraging. "I'm asking you for this favor. It's up to you to hold the line, Colonel. Isn't that what you've always said? Dig in and hold the line until reinforcements arrive?""

"I _hate_ what this is doing to you, Nance," Warburton said bitterly. "Never expected to burden you! It's too soon for the _both_ of us."

"—Hush now, Colonel," she spoke his rank as an endearment, her eyes again welling with tears. "Don't talk like that. Let's not surrender…hope."

_Not faking for this audience, at least_. Sherlock noted trails of previously shed tears in her otherwise evenly applied makeup.

Sherlock glanced at John. His friend seemed moved by the couple's pathos. John might be an emotional pushover but Sherlock trusted the barometer of his friend's social response to gauge authenticity when his own was skewed by suspicion. John's face and demeanor registered genuine empathy. This helped Sherlock decide: _Maybe not the wife, but_ _cutting candor in a commander could rankle subordinates. Will need to test his anger threshold._

The colonel gave his wife a thin smile and squeezed her hand before he looked toward the doctors. "My wife is right. I apolgize."

"Quite all right," Otis raised his palms in commiseration. "While we concentrate on medical solutions, Mr. Holmes will assist us in ruling out potential avenues of contamination we cannot investigate…."

"This lot are being delicate," Warburton grimaced wryly at Sherlock, "—but they think someone is poisoning me deliberately. Isn't that why you're here, Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, Colonel. That's one suspicion. However, to establish motive and means, I will need as many details as you can provide. Nothing's too trivial. It's my job to sort through the facts and determine which are incidental and which are vital."

"That there could be a possibility _anyone_ close to us would do… _something_ like this… to Andrew is unthinkable, Mr. Holmes."

"That, Mrs. Warburton, is why you need me," Sherlock professed with a scant smile. "Now, Colonel, let me start by asking… How much beer do you consume each week?"

The question back-footed the colonel. "What?" Warburton pulled back and looked from Sherlock to his wife as if he had misheard. "Beer, you say? What's this got to do?—"

"My reasons will soon be clear," Sherlock assured him. "Please answer the question."

The colonel's eyes narrowed. "Like most people, an occasional pint…. "

"Most people? Most people in the UK drink an average of 9.7 litres of alcohol—the equivalent of 427 pints a year, a little over a pint daily. And Baby Boomers—which you are one—consume far more alcohol than younger drinkers. So when you compare yourself to most people, then…that's roughly 8 pints a week."

Sherlock's statistics were not well received by Nancy Warburton. _"_ Hardly, Mr. Holmes!" she said, defending her husband's pride. "Andrew has always shown restraint."

"What exactly is 'occasional' then?" Sherlock folded his arms and drummed his fingers. To John, this gesture meant Sherlock was anticipating the answers and already moving on to another line of thought, but to anyone else, it bespoke impatience.

"Not as diplomatic as your brother, are you?" The colonel groused under his breath.

"True. I'm _not_ like my brother," Sherlock countered curtly. "Yet, you just criticized your medical team for being overly _delicate_. Diplomacy will not change the facts."

The colonel conceded with a nod and answered. "Maybe twice a week, two pints max, Mr. Holmes. Sometimes I go out for a pint with army friends, but most times it's with Nancy and my sons," Warburton paused and scowled, "but if you're suggesting my sons might be poisoning—"

"—I'm not suggesting anything," Sherlock interrupted, noting anger rising in the colonel's voice. "I'm fact-gathering. So, when you go out for a pint, is your preference tap or bottled?"

"Depends on the pub. Tap's preferred. Again, Mr. Holmes," Warburton replied with aggravated annoyance, "what do my beer preferences have to do with cobalt toxicity?"

"Perhaps nothing, perhaps everything," Sherlock responded pointedly. "Do you prefer artisan beers from small breweries?"

" _Sherlock_ ," John warned, concerned the line of questioning was agitating the patient, a man assigned to a psych ward for his recent psychological decompensation. "If this has a point, it might be _good_ to make it about now?—"

Sherlock ignored John. "I assume you _want_ to get to the bottom of this? Your full cooperation, Colonel, is essential. Do you frequent artisan breweries or possibly, do you make your own?"

"No, to all your questions," While the colonel's eyes flashed his exasperation, he inhaled a deep breath and maintained self-control.

"Excellent!" Sherlock clapped his hands and grinned. Warburton's demonstration of self-restraint and his forthright answers pleased him. "So, toxicity from beer intake can be eliminated."

Sherlock took in their confused stares and plunged into an explanation, "Cobalt toxicity has been linked to industrial exposure to cobalt, as well as cobalt-chloride tablets used to treat anemia, but years ago, doctors noticed geographic clusters of cobalt-induced cardiomyopathies in nonindustrial regions. This unusual spike launched an investigation by the NHS. The results were fascinating—and in this case, instructive. For decades, breweries had been adding cobalt sulfate when dispensing keg beer, resulting in drinkers developing cobalt-related toxicities."

"Cobalt sulfate in beer?" Rodgers interjected in amazement. "Whatever for?"

"Both to stabilize the foam and to compensate for inadequately cleaned glasses as a consequence of bar staff cutting corners—but that's another problem altogether. The beer foam dissipated too quickly when dishwashing detergents were not properly rinsed before the glasses were reused. Cardiomyopathies occurred at alarming rates only to tap-beer drinkers using the establishments' glasses. It did not occur in those who drank bottled or canned beer. As cobalt-laced alcohol enters the blood stream, it's absorbed rather than ingested. Your doctors stated you have not ingested cobalt, but I had to determine if systemic absorption of cobalt was a result of your beer consumption."

"Wait," John pursed his lips worriedly. "So you're saying… that if you order a pint on tap…you might be getting cobalt sulfate…?"

"Not any longer, John. Presumably this practice ended once the study connected the dots, but with the surge in artisan breweries, it seemed the most obvious avenue to explore, especially, Colonel, if you were a heavy drinker."

"Which I am not." The colonel huffed an unamused laugh. "What other tricks do you have up your sleeve, Mr. Holmes?"

"No tricks. Just deductions from facts. Were someone deliberately poisoning you by food and nonalcoholic beverages, the expected route for toxicity would be through your digestive tract. Your doctors have been quite definite that you have neither ingested nor inhaled cobalt as there is no evidence in your stomach, intestines, or lungs. We have now established that it has not been absorbed by external means via alcohol consumption. This leaves us with just one avenue we have not yet discussed—injections."

"No! Never! I don't take drugs!" Warburton snapped, but then reconsidered, "—well, not until my recent diagnoses required all sorts of pills!"

"That's true, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Warburton offered. "Our bedside table at home is covered with prescriptions since Andrew's symptoms began six months ago. Before then, there was no need…."

"The British Army has zero-tolerance for substance misuse and so do I!" the colonel stated with pride in his voice. "Besides, my doctors have no doubt informed you there is no evidence of previous or current intravenous drug use, yes?"

"People can be clever in how they hide their injections sites," Sherlock replied softly. His innuendo was met with a hard look but no violent outburst from the colonel.

Sherlock's words gave John a sinking feeling. He shot a concerned look toward his friend.

Sherlock, however, remained focused on Warburton. He had been testing the colonel's forbearance throughout their exchange. Challenging the integrity of a highly principled man was sure to rile someone with an authoritarian complex and a short fuse.

Warburton screwed his eyes tight to scrutinize his interrogator, then he laughed. "I've heard _this_ about you. Mr. Holmes. They say you're a rude and obnoxious git, which is apparently true, but I see what you're _really_ doing here. You're _trying_ to be disagreeable by contradicting me to get me to defend myself and reveal more."

"Oh?" Sherlock grinned brightly and glanced at John. "I've been told I'm a disagreeable git all the time. _Trying_ never enters into it."

"Ha! I've used this method myself back in the day," Warburton explained in an aside to his wife.

As the colonel had maintained a reasonable cool throughout his enquiries, Sherlock was largely convinced that Colonel Warburton's "reputation for fairness and level-headedness as a commanding officer"—as John had described earlier—seemed legitimate. But Sherlock knew anyone in authority, no matter how magnanimous, had critics. Before Sherlock could rule out malicious intent, he had to eliminate _opportunity_ by ill-wishers to commit the crime.

"Well then, with my condescending airs and interrogative method exposed," Sherlock leveled with the colonel, "I still must press on with several indelicate questions, if you'll permit me?"

"Fire away, Holmes!"

"Tainted products can be a cause. Have you shared any medications with others, including steroid use with fellow athletes or sexual-enhancing drugs not prescribed by your medical professionals?"

"No," Warburton answered flatly.

"With what frequency do you associate with former military colleagues?"

"I had been meeting up with vets for cycling marathons since retirement. In fact, after my hip surgery, I was pleased to be back on the bike within six weeks and participated in a 325km road race with several of them. It was splendid." Warburton's smile rose to his eyes.

"Yes," Rodgers affirmed, "the surgeon had chosen the device that was ideal for exceptionally active individuals."

"Hmmmm," Sherlock was struck by a new thought. "And this implant, you said was …metal on metal?"

"Yes. The most commonly used combinations are," the neurologist ticked off the list on her fingers, "ceramic-on-ceramic, ceramic-on-plastic, metal-on-plastic, and the most recent innovation has been metal-on-metal."

"What metal?" Sherlock rounded on her.

"Sorry?" Rodgers blinked, taken aback by Sherlock's abruptness.

"What metal is used in these implant devices?" Sherlock seemed electrified by an epiphany; his eyes gleamed with excitement.

"Well, I don't rightly know off the top of my head. Do you, Michael?" she deferred to Otis.

Sherlock clutched his head in exasperation.

The psychiatrist frowned at Sherlock's obvious irritation and shook his head, adding, "It's not my specialty, but I presume, as with most medical devices, such implants must be either medically approved or substantially equivalent—that's the regulatory term—to another device that's already on the market or they wouldn't be available."

"That doesn't answer my question. _What_ metal?" Sherlock asked through clenched teeth.

"Let me see if I can find out!" Rodgers flipped open her medical tablet.

"Thank you!" Sherlock rolled his eyes, frustrated by the slower minds in the room.

While Dr. Rodgers scrolled through Warburton's medical files, Sherlock turned to John and Warburton. "Cobalt is prevalent in metal manufacture because it produces an especially hard alloy. This could be the source of the contamination, Colonel, if the metal implant contains cobalt."

The neurologist sighed. "Warburton's implant is not described in these current notes. We may have to check archives for his surgical files and description of the device, but oh, wait! I see a product name and a code number."

"Give it to me!" Sherlock whirled on the woman.

"Huh?" She flinched under Sherlock's sudden focus.

"Give me the name and product code!" Sherlock repeated more slowly.

John was relieved his friend refrained from saying, "You, idiot," to his colleague, although it was likely at the tip of Sherlock's tongue.

As Rodgers read it aloud, Sherlock input the details in his mobile. He paced in a tight circle as he waited and froze in place when the results appeared. He swiped through the literature until he got to the specs. "Brilliant!" he crowed and spun around, holding his mobile high in the air for all to see. "Indeed. We have found our culprit. Metal-on-metal implants are made from a super alloy of titanium and cobalt-chromium!"

John mirrored Sherlock's broad smile of delight. "Amazing! It's the implant, then?"

"It's what I've always maintained, John! Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth!"

"Oh, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Warburton exclaimed, clutching her hands in excitement, "Could this explain Andrew's hand tremors, the ringing in his ears, his forgetfulness and hallucinations, even his recent psychological instability—the hip replacement?"

Sherlock gave her his most pleased smile. "You heard him complain the water tasted metallic. That's another symptom of metallosis. Along with his current symptoms, it all fits. More importantly, it's what the facts suggest, Mrs. Warburton."

"I don't understand why these symptoms showed up only six months ago," Warburton shook his head skeptically at Sherlock's conclusion. "Why hadn't they appeared _two_ years ago when I first had the implant?"

"Your symptoms likely coincided with the breakdown of the device," John explained. As a surgeon, he understood the process. "What was it you told me, Janice? His surgeon discovered, 'unexpected and excessive wear in the metal femoral head.' The mechanics are simple. The most critical fundamentals in hip implants are the materials, the parts and pieces that rub together. We know that your surgeon was made aware recently of your implant's failure."

"I believe," Sherlock asserted, "this wear and tear of the metal alloy is releasing cobalt ions into your system—poisoning you."

"The metal-on-metal innovation is fairly new, but if this's true, that the device itself is causing neurologic and psychotic symptoms," Otis looked perplexed, "it's quite unsettling." He paused before reasserting, "Still, Mr. Holmes, it's not in any of the literature about the device."

"Not in the literature, you say? Then there's a problem with the regulatory policy," Sherlock frowned, "especially if the manufacturer failed to follow-up with data on their latest innovation. I suspect Colonel Warburton's case, and perhaps others that have yet been reported, might change that!"

"So," Rodgers offered, "doing a revision hip replacement sooner than later sounds feasible now. I will call the surgeon immediately if you agree, Colonel Warburton?"

"Absolutely, if Holmes is as convinced as he seems," Warburton grabbed his wife's hand. Mrs. Warburton smiled at her husband with approval.

"We have a wider responsibility here, Janice," John reminded his colleague. "I know the surgeon had already proposed this replacement, but a chelation course to reduce the metal poisoning is in order first, then a biopsy of tissue contiguous to the site of the implant's break-down."

"Quite! That's what's necessary," Sherlock agreed, "conclusive evidence of cobalt contamination in levels sufficient to establish a general recall. And NHS needs to be notified of those results so surgeons using this product can check on _their_ patients. With the source of the toxicity established," Sherlock projected the repercussions with scientific clarity, "NHS must proceed against the manufacturer. I assume they'll want to cease further implantations until this is ameliorated…" his voice trailed off as disinterest began to set in.

Warburton extended his hand. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes, thank you. Every bit the man your brother is."

"High praise," Sherlock murmured and took in the small circle's looks of gratitude, admiration, and amazement with a slight bow. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have cases to solve. Come, John." He knotted his scarf, turned up his collar, and strode from the room.

**88**

So End the Blogger's Tale But Epilogue to Follow

**88**


	4. The Epilogue

**BBC Sherlock: The Blogger's Tale**

****Epilogue****

"You do that every time, John!" Sherlock objected when they had finished exchanging details about the case. "You've made me look…over dramatic."

"Well, you have to admit, your exit was quite theatrical," John chuckled at the memory.

"Not so!" Sherlock pushed back in his winged chair and shook his head. "I was forced to make quick work of that favor of yours because there were other more pressing concerns—."

"Stop arguing, you two," Rosie's giggles interrupted their banter.

John and Sherlock blinked in synchronized surprise and glanced at the young woman. Lost in their recollections from two decades ago, both men had forgotten she was there or that they were in Sherlock's Sussex cottage and not back in Baker Street.

Rosie had been listening intently with a smile on her face. She was sprawled over the floor pillows on her stomach, with her head cradled in her hands braced on her elbows, and swinging her crossed ankles in the air.

"Still, that's the way I remember it," John replied, unwilling to cede his point to Sherlock. He gave his daughter a lopsided smile and continued, "Before I followed you out of the hospital room, Warburton detained me to ask, 'Is he always like that'?"

"Wait, Dad!" Rosie lifted her head and straightened her elbows in a cobra pose. "Mike Stamford said something like that when you first met Uncle Sherlock to talk about a flatshare, right?"

John threw his daughter an amused look. "It's a question I've heard often over the years, but no, Rosie. Mike's was a statement, not a question. He claimed he answered the look of surprise on my face. Now that was also an unforgettable moment," he snickered behind a sentimental grin.

Rosie beamed at both men for the affection she observed between them.

John glanced at the index card in his lap. "I can always count on your ironclad memory, Sherlock, for the smallest details."

Sherlock grunted in agreement, "Of course. The benefits of an ordered Mind Palace."

"Still, it was brilliant how you deduced the case. Extraordinary, under the circumstances and given the little you had to go on."

A scant smile flickered on Sherlock's face at John's praise. "I merely followed the facts. The colonel was suffering from metallosis. I deduced his elevated cobalt levels were not due to his drinking habits or someone's betrayal in an attempt to poison him. So it followed: he was being poisoned by his implant. In truth, it was his trust that had been betrayed, by both the manufacturer's failure in authenticating the data and the regulatory policy that approved the innovation before it had been properly tested for human use. In the presence of persistently elevated metal ion levels and symptoms consistent with metal toxicity and after a chelation course—as you recommended—reduced the heightened cobalt-chromium levels in his blood, the revision hip replacement was necessary."

"Sherlock was absolutely right, Rosie, about, the metal-on-metal implant," John sipped absentmindedly at his tea and frowned. It had long gone cold during his recounting of the case. He placed the half-empty cup on the side table before continuing. "When the colonel's orthopedic surgeon went in to revise the hip with a plastic socket and a ceramic head, he found a virtual crankcase of metal sludge. The critical ligaments—you know them, Rosie, as the hip capsule that holds a hip in place—had virtually liquefied."

"Dreadful, I'm sure!" Rosie sat up and fluffed the pillows. "I've read those studies. So, Dad?" Rosie shifted to sit cross-legged, "How did the colonel fare after the hip replacement?"

"That's what so miraculous! Within a month, Warburton had an incredible recovery. His psychological symptoms abated completely along with his hearing loss, visual impairment, and the sorted neurologic symptoms. He was very lucky. Sherlock saved his life!"

"Your father is heavy on the praise today," Sherlock remarked neutrally, although his eyes shone with satisfaction, "but to the logician, all things should be seen exactly as they are. I am being neither vain nor modest in saying it had been expected of me to solve the puzzle and so I fulfilled that obligation."

"As you've probably read in your researches, Rosie," her father continued, "patients who were never properly diagnosed died from the toxicity their doctors couldn't explain. Sherlock solved Colonel Warburton's madness within thirty minutes. The more I remember it, the more amazing it was. In hindsight, I'm sorry I didn't post it on the blog!"

"Shortly after that, John, you had more important responsibilities in your life," Sherlock nodded at Rosie and gave his goddaughter a wink that raised a reciprocal wink in her twinkling blue eyes.

"I can see how it would've been so baffling at the time," Rosie reflected, "especially when people trusted that their new-and-improved medical implants, whether a pacemaker or joint, had undergone appropriate testing before going on the market for medical procedures."

"That's right, Rosie!" John was taking great pride in his daughter's biomedical engineering astuteness and her ability to participate fully in the conversation. "Now it's in all the medical journals. Back then, no one else was talking about it."

"Quite. Warburton's case was possibly one of the first reports regarding cobalt toxicity," Sherlock added. "Other cases followed shortly after and I can only suppose the publication of his case gave other stymied physicians an explanation that fit their own patients' symptomology. It was perplexing for so long because, initially, the neurologic manifestations seemed unrelated to the hip replacement. The two-year lapse between implant surgery and symptoms made it difficult to connect—although neurologic impairments appeared in less than two years for the more athletic patients like the colonel."

"The implant's break-down was accelerated by Warburton's rigorous activity," John explained, "and brought those symptoms on much sooner. Apparently, not every patient with that alloy composition experienced this wear issue, but there were enough to merit its recall."

"Lots to learn!" Rosie noted as she rose to her feet to collect their tea cups. "I remember reading that regulatory policies weren't strict enough, allowing for loopholes...so these products could bypass costly testing." She paused in thought at the kitchen sink. "How did you put it in your story? The manufacturer needed to demonstrate its new innovation was 'substantially equivalent' to another device already approved. It's a shame, really. It was a cost-saving measure that ended costing lives."

"Indeed, and this daisy-chain of 'presumed' approvals from one generation of devices to another was at fault." Sherlock now stood to stretch his legs and arms. "An innovative device got approved on the basis of being 'substantially equivalent' to a previous medical device that had been approved because it was substantially equivalent to an earlier medical device that had also been approved, and so on, and so on. You see the problem? As if derivative design conferred some sacrosanct imprimatur," he snorted with contempt. "Taking short cuts without scientific verification to prove they were actually equivalent was the greatest error."

"And there ends the tale. The Case of Colonel Warburton's Madness was a perfect title," John exhaled a self-satisfied laugh. "Number twenty-seven of our unpublished cases," he held up the card for one last, nostalgic look before sorting through the others in the box on his lap to re-file it. "Huh? What's this? There's no twenty-six or twenty-eight?" He continued flipping through case cards. "And this card has both the numbers twenty-nine and thirty on it. What? There doesn't seem to be a numerical order to these others …." He scowled in frustration. "What kind of mad filing system is this, Sherlock?"

"After all these years, John," Sherlock teased and rounded John's chair to look over his shoulder, "I expected you to be more attuned to my methods."

Rosie's eyes widened. "Oh! Of course," she cried in delight from the kitchen. "Brilliant! That's how you instantly knew it was the cobalt toxicity case!"

"What is it?" John looked up at the smirking Sherlock, not following his daughter's epiphany. "Sherlock, explain please?"

"And deprive your daughter of sharing her discovery? You must think me heartless, John."

"Okay, will someone explain it to me?" John grinned in mock indignation, accustomed to their levity at his expense.

"Oh, Dad! It's basic chemistry," Rosie joined Sherlock behind John's chair and wrapped her arms around her father's neck. "Cobalt," she pecked a kiss on his bristly cheek, "is the chemical element with the symbol Co and atomic number—."

—Twenty-seven!" John smacked his forehead in sudden enlightenment.

"You see. You are on sparkling form!" she cheered him with another hug and a kiss to the top of his head before she straightened again.

"Ha! Yes, of course! What person in their right mind would sort cases by anything other than the Periodic Table?" John whinged, waving the card above his head. "Dates, the alphabet, even a numbers sequence? No, they're too ordinary! But atomic numbers, that makes perfect sense!"

"Now, now, Dad," Rosie put a consoling arm about his shoulders as she settled on his chair's arm. "Uncle Sherlock's hint helped me figure it out …." Her father's furrowed forehead was a clue he wasn't appeased. Still, it tickled her to see his overreaction to his genius friend's coding system. Rather than laugh in her father's face, she hopped off the chair arm and coughed softly to hide her giggles.

"It does make perfect sense, John, if you think about it," Sherlock reasoned, "just as it does for Case of the Coiner's Cuff. That card is dually marked with the atomic numbers for copper, twenty-nine, and zinc, thirty—the filings I found in the seam of his cuffs—but not all our unpublished cases are identified by atomic number, John. Take for example the one about the Abernetty family."

"Come again. Which one?" John's face was the picture-perfect expression of bewilderment.

"The Abernetty family," Sherlock repeated patiently. "You will see I had marked that one with 20°C, the temperature at which butter softens. It's clearly a reference to my observation of the depth to which the parsley had sunk into the butter on a hot day."

"Oh my God," John swiveled in his armchair toward his daughter in an appeal for his sanity. "Don't tell me you understand this system, then?"

Rosie shrugged, straight faced, knowing better than to get between their two points of view.

"Sherlock, you are indeed the most idiosyncratic human being I have ever had the privilege of knowing!" John groaned, recognizing how ridiculous he was to argue with Sherlock's massive intellect and doing his best to mask his amusement.

"Why, thank you, John."

"By ordinary standards, I know I'm not a stupid man," John sulked behind a comic wink at Rosie as he replaced the Warburton's Madness card in the box next to the Coiner's Cuff and closed the lid, "but I am an idiot when it comes to fathoming that extraordinary brain of yours. And a lifetime of always being steps behind does wear one out."

"Don't despair, John," Sherlock lightly clapped his friend on the shoulder, while behind John's back, sharing a mischievous, arched eyebrow with his goddaughter. "You're never too far behind. Although it's true your methodical plodding can exasperate, at times, it has more often served to ignite my thought processes like a match to a fuse."

"Just so you know…," John again twisted in the arm chair feigning a long-suffering frown at his daughter and friend. "If I play the halfwit, it's to make you look clever. Such has been my humble role in our alliance."

At her father's snarky comeback, Rosie burst into unbridled merriment. Her contagious cackle quickly drew out John's hearty laugh while Sherlock's puckish grin broadened into a genuine smile.

As satisfied as the retired consulting detective had become with his solitary life, an unexpected and unbidden thought surfaced. I've missed this! He savored it briefly before shoving it farther into a special room in his Mind Palace.

John dabbed tears of mirth from his eyes. "Well, this was a splendid way to spend a rainy day in the country,"

"It's not rainy now. Observe, John." Sherlock motioned toward the windows buttered by welcome sunshine. "The storm's passed. Shall we all venture outside?"

"Yes!" Rosie grabbed her coat and pulled on her trainers. "Can't wait to see these famous hives of yours! Should I suspect a book about bees is in your writing future, Uncle Sherlock?"

"Not an apiphobe, I see," Sherlock murmured with approval.

"Afraid of bees? Why should I be?" She buttoned her coat and reached for the doorknob. "It's not like I'm allergic."

"They are fascinating creatures, but afraid or not, you must respect them, Rosie," Sherlock warned. "The last thing you want to do is put a hive's inhabitants on the defensive. Right after a thunderstorm isn't the optimum time to approach them—more bees are in the hive with the express purpose of defending themselves. We'll wait until the bees are less excitable. They'll be buzzing about soon enough once the sun is shining and warms the day a bit. In the meanwhile, there's more to enjoy on this farm than just the bees."

"Rosie, your uncle's the expert, now. Best to heed what he says."

She smiled fondly at words she had heard in many permutations since childhood. "I'll stay away from the hives and out of mischief, I promise." She opened the door wide and let the ozone-scented air and yellow brilliance flood the room. Silhouetted in the doorway, she urged the two men impatiently, "Don't tarry, then. I'll wait outside," and shut the door behind her.

Traces of petrichor lingered in the air. Both men savored the scent, but the room seemed suddenly dark. Sherlock stared at the closed door where the girl stood just outside. "Charming. Insightful. A product of extraordinary parenting." He looked down at John. "And how unlike us she is."

"Good thing," John flashed him a grin. "Don't know if I could've handled any inherited Morstan or Watson nasty traits in her—much less influences of your Holmes eccentricities—and have kept my wits intact."

Sherlock grunted his agreement and offered a hand to his older friend. "Best not keep her waiting—she got that trait from both of us."

Accepting, John pulled to his feet and shook out his legs to unkink the mild arthritis in his knees. "Been sitting too long. Not good. You know what they always say, sitting is the new smoking?"

"They've been saying that for nigh on twenty-five years," Sherlock countered before switching off the gas fireplace with his voice command,"Fireplace off."

John silently marveled at the high-tech, 'smart' conveniences Sherlock had installed in his country home. "Well, it's true." John sighed and wandered through the sitting room. He glanced at the bookcases, the lab equipment; the music stand with a handwritten composition in progress while the violin rested below in its open case, comparing the greater differences of Sherlock's tidy cottage décor with his memories of the topsy-turvy bachelor comfort of Baker Street.

"Nice touch." John pointed to the mail impaled by a familiar penknife in the rustic mantel. "Enjoying retirement?"

"Living the life of a hermit as you can see." Sherlock swept one arm wide in an exaggerated gesture too grand for the cozy cottage.

"Works for you, then?" John turned and focused on his friend. Concern and curiosity were mixed in his expression.

Sherlock met John's penetrating scrutiny before he dropped his gaze to his feet as if to fetch his answer.

Understanding Sherlock's evasiveness, John waited in silence. Expressing sentiments would always be difficult for the both of them, but whenever Sherlock let his closest friend into his private space of thoughts and feelings—which was the intention of John's question—it was typically done with great restraint.

"The bees give me new gangs to study much like I had with the criminal elements of London," Sherlock smiled at his analogy. "Lots of interests to keep my mind sharp and my body physically active."

"Good," John approved. "She's right, you know…?" He tilted his head toward the door indicating Rosie. "Writing. About the bees. Something to occupy your leisured ease, you think?"

"The fruit of pensive nights and laborious days," Sherlock nodded in agreement, looking warmly back at his friend. "And you, John? You look well. Retirement good?"

"Well," John bobbed his head and shrugged, "It's only been a few months. Still getting used to it, but fine, yes. No undue exertions to speak of."

"You're happy with that?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"Of course. Of course. At my age…who wouldn't be?" John insisted, "Enough peace and quiet to last a lifetime."

Sherlock's scrutiny intensified, but his voice remained neutral, "No more adventures in your future, then?"

John paused, not liking the implication in Sherlock's question, "Well, not perilous ones…. Some travel plans abroad, perhaps—"

"—boring," Sherlock interrupted.

John shook his head, evading Sherlock's hawklike stare. "You know what I mean,..."

Sherlock waited. When their gazes met again, he was disturbed by the uncharacteristic resignation in John's eyes.

"The truth is, Sherlock, our thrilling adventures served us both quite well. You thrived on the challenges, I on the causes. I like to think, together, we made this world a better place. But now, I'm reminded that I need to come to terms with my limitations."

"Reminded by whom?" Sherlock scoffed, and fixed John with a look of frustration. "Your London lot are idiots, all of them, and you are, too, if you let these 'friends' persuade you otherwise...Look outward for possibilities, John, not inward at limitations!" Abruptly, he tightened his focus as the thought struck him, "Are you unwell?"

The sincere worry in Sherlock's voice caught John by surprise. "What? No. No. Not that. My health's good. I'm still keeping fit, but the knees and the old shoulder injury act up more now and sometimes my endurance; well it's not what it used to…." he trailed off annoyed at himself; his excuses made him sound old and used up.

They stood facing each other for a moment: Sherlock considered his friend; John waited as if at attention. This moment seemed so familiar.

"Care to test your limitations?" Sherlock gestured toward the great outdoors of his small farm.

"Oh, God. Yes!" John blurted out in relief, and they grabbed their jackets.

First to the door, Sherlock opened it and followed John out into the bright sunshine. With one hand shielding his eyes, Sherlock reached back for the doorknob. "What do you think, John, for the title of my book: A Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with Some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen ?"

"Why just a book, Sherlock? How about a blog, or whatever they call them these days?" John asked. "It would be my privilege to help..."

The door shut behind them.

****888****

**An End With New Beginnings**

* * *

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> I am eternally grateful to my Holmes Expert for her patience and guidance in the writing of this story and whose advice I find invaluable. The polish in this piece is thanks to her beta skills, while any errors are mine in the final writing.
> 
> The core idea of the story was inspired by a 2018 documentary entitled the Bleeding Edge about the problems with the medical-device industry approving many kinds of 'substantially equivalent' implants that have not been properly tested. The documentary focuses on some permanent birth-control devices, vaginal mesh, the Da Vinci Surgical System, and chrome-cobalt hip-replacements.
> 
> This, unfortunately, is fact, not fiction.
> 
> Regarding metal-on-metal hip replacements, the documentary describes how the manufacturers failed to authenticate the data on their cobalt-alloy device. It also demonstrates that the regulatory policy had loopholes to approve generations of innovations before they were tested adequately, causing the neurologic symptoms of cobalt toxicity described in this casefic.
> 
> So while the general information is true—and I applaud many of my readers who correctly suspected the cause—I admit to fictionalizing a patient by the name of Colonel Warburton and placing this tale in 2016 when cobalt-alloy hip-implants toxicity was still relatively unknown.
> 
> **888**
> 
> "But you have retired, Holmes. We heard of you as living the life of a hermit among your bees and your books in a small farm upon the South Downs.'"
> 
> "Exactly, Watson. Here is the fruit of my leisured ease, the magnum opus of latter years!" He picked up the volume from the table and read out the whole title, Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with Some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen.
> 
> "Alone I did it. Behold, the fruit of the pensive nights and laborious days when I watched the little working gangs as I once watched the criminal world of London."


End file.
